


Slivers of Wood in the Shape of Mothman

by Notsohappycamper



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Sexual Slow Burn, Weird Robert Jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsohappycamper/pseuds/Notsohappycamper
Summary: Until he's a better person, Robert wants to wait on a relationship. But in the face of temptation, can he wait? Can either of them?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Robert's good ending! Rating may rise if it gets saucy, and this is Sex God Robert we're dealing with, so of course it will.

The night air is cold on my skin. Robert watches the sky from beside me, and I watch him do so.

He doesn't say anything about me staring, but I don't expect him to.

When Robert messaged me at 1:43 A.M. to meet him outside of his house, I wasn't even surprised anymore. Getting used to multiple late-night Robert summonings will do that to a person, I guess.

I was laying on the sofa, mind-numbingly switching between the history channel, various reality shows, and dumb infomercials when the Dadbook app on my phone pinged with a notification. If it wasn't for Amanda showing me before she left for college, I would have never known how to set that app up or even known that there was a Dadbook app for phones in the first place. ...Or known what a phone "app" was in general. God bless Amanda, really.

So now I'm sitting with Robert on lawn chairs in his open garage, nursing a beer while he sips on whiskey beside me. His truck is behind us, front doors open, playing old CDs of his over the stereo. Soft male voices and soulful guitar plucking. He taps a foot along to the current beat.

I swallow another mouthful of beer, thinking of what to say. Maybe there's nothing I _can_  say. Maybe there's nothing I _should_  say. Robert taught me that once: the importance of killing unnecessary small talk from conversations.

"...I-"

"You know if I use binoculars, I can see your bed from my bathroom window," he cuts me off. His face is so neutral and his voice is so even that I believe him for a few horrifying seconds. Then I remember his odd sense of humor and smile.

"Oh really?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and playing along. "Get some nice angles of me drooling and falling half off the bed?"

"Oh, yeah," he nods back, face and voice still neutral. "I record it. Keep it all on floppys, 'cause I don't trust anything beyond the mid 90s to protect something so valuable to me."

"As you shouldn't. I wouldn't want videos of my hot snoring and drooling action being leaked to the public."

"Don't you worry. I keep it all to myself." He leans back in his lawn chair and spreads his legs. "Jack off to it every night."

My smile drops and my eyes widen. Okay. I didn't know a person's cheeks could get so warm so quickly, but my face right now is a clear testament to that. I blink at him, speechless, and wow, is it hot out here now, or is it just me?

He cracks eventually and gives me a faint smirk that does nothing to elevate all the terrible and wonderful things his teasing statement just did to my body.

"Kidding, of course."

"Of course, " I damn near cough out, pausing to gulp down half of my beer in one go.

Kidding about what...? About the whole seeing my bed from his bathroom window thing, or about the jacking off thing? Both? Neither?!

This man, honestly... This dangerous enigma of a man. How did I ever find myself befriending him?

"Yeah," Robert says, still staring out into the sky. The glow from a nearby streetlamp in the cul-de-sac makes his brown eyes shine. "Gotta pass those lonely nights somehow. How you handlin' those now that your daughter's gone, by the way?"

Ouch.

"Oh, you know..." I mumble.

Even though it's only been a little over a month, it still hurts like every new day is that fateful day we packed up all her stuff and I had to say goodbye. On that day, I lasted about 5 minutes after her text that she and her new roommate were going out for dinner together before I frantically called and asked her if she made it to dinner safely.

Yeah, I was a mess. Kind of still am.

But, speaking of messes, Robert's finished his glass of whiskey and is standing up, presumably to duck back inside for a refill, so I grab his wrist and stop him. He looks down at me, his face a mixture of confused, concerned, and slightly annoyed.

I rack my brain for something to say other than 'I don't like how much you drink; I don't want your liver to fail in 5 years and for you to die and leave me all alone.'

Did I mention that I'm a mess?

"David?" Robert asks, that cocktail of expressions on his face now weighing much more heavily towards annoyed.

"I'm kinda hungry. Are you hungry? Man, am I hungry!"

Nice one, Dave. Very smooth and completely inconspicuous.

Robert sighs and twists his wrist out of my hand. My eyes linger on his dark skin. His toned biceps, the hair on his arms, the tiny white notches on his scarred hands. The tattoo. He's wearing a black shirt and a loose pair of grey sweatpants with socks. I've been trying and failing to not focus on how low those sweatpants hang on his hips. And to make matters worse - better...? - I don't think he's wearing boxers, either.

"I don't really have much food here," he mutters. "Want me to order you something?"

Oh. Crap. That lie about being hungry was all fine and dandy, but now I actually have to follow through with it.

"There's, uh... leftovers at my place. Let's head over there. I'll heat something up."

"Really?" Robert smirks, and I take a mental snapshot of how handsome it makes him look. "That's so Dad of you..."

"You know it." I drain my beer and set the empty bottle down in front of our chairs.

Robert sets his empty glass down beside it and walks down his driveway towards my house, leaving the CD to keep playing in his truck. I glance back at it before following him across the cul-de-sac.

He stands by with his hands in his pockets while I unlock my door and let us inside. Then we head to the kitchen, and I try to carry out that lie about being hungry, when really it's almost 2:30 A.M. and my older Dad digestive system should not be anywhere near food at this time of night.

Still, I whip up a small bowl of reheated stir-fry, prepared to nibble on it while not eating it as much as possible. I turn from the microwave to find Robert leaning against the kitchen counter and watching me, hands still in his pockets.

I meet his eyes, and he doesn't look away, openly staring at me. His face, as usual, betrays nothing about what he's thinking.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out, because, honestly, I'm struck at the sight of him, leaning on my kitchen counter in his baggy relaxing clothes, tired and quiet and drop-dead handsome. The man's a sight for sore eyes... For any eyes, really.

Before I know it, I've set my bowl of cooling stir-fry down behind me and am standing in front of him, my hands on the counter to either sides of his hips. I admire the shade of his brown eyes under the glow of my kitchen lights and breathe out through my mouth onto his, my lips parted and my heart racing. His face remains unchanged.

It's hard to stare into those intense eyes for any longer, so I look down to the dark stubble on his jaw instead. Slowly, I move my hands from the counter to his body. My hands press over the outlines of his from inside his pockets, close to his crotch, feeling his strong hands through the fabric. He finally reacts then, shifting and tilting his head forward. Inside his pocket, his right hand twitches.

"Food's gettin' cold," he says. He leans forward more, then stops, his eyes darting down to my lips. I resist the urge to lick them for him.

"Oh," I breathe, wanting so badly to... to do _everything_. Everything I know I shouldn't. We made that promise of him bettering himself under the cherry blossom tree that day, both our daughters in our thoughts, our hearts on our sleeves. But... His hands are tense in his pockets, and we're so close. All it would take is for me to lean my hips forward and just... "Are you sure... you're not hungry, Robert?"

"Mmm," he hums in a tone that's dripping sin, his eyes practically tearing my clothes off. "Starving..."

His deep, heady voice sends a jolt of pure arousal through me, and I wonder if my voice does that to him, too. His hands ball into fists in his pockets, and I squeeze them tighter.

God, what has gotten into me...

"You better watch out, David," he tells me suddenly, breaking from our little game. He leans forward again, this time with his whole body. The movement is predatory. "Before I do something about it."

First-hand experience of what that "something" is is a desire I entertain almost every night. But I don't want this to be just about sex. I want it to be so much more.

Robert is so interesting and fun to be around. He's a great drinking and movie buddy. His unpredictable nature and late night excursions have made me feel 20 years younger, and his sense of humor is so unique that every time he tells one of his outrageous stories, I feel like I should write it down and make a novel out of it.

Over time, I've discovered Robert really is like whiskey. Deep, potent, and burning like fire.

And, like whiskey, contrary to Robert's attraction to shots, it's best appreciated when sipped and slowly savored. Shots are nice, yeah, when you're feeling down and want to forget about the world around you, but I don't want to forget any of this. I don't want Robert to be a shot.

I blink at Robert's bedroom eyes and realize that yes, I did just compare my relationship with Robert to a glass of whiskey, in great detail. This guy is a bigger influence on me than I thought.

Needless to say, I'm not hungry or thirsty for anything that doesn't involve Robert's body against mine in any way, shape, or form, but I force myself to lean back, run my hands up his arms to his shoulders, and then pull away. He sighs through his nose as I do so, like all his sexual desire can be breathed out into the air and forgotten about. If only it was that easy.

"So, you gonna eat that or not?" he asks, looking behind me to the bowl of stir-fry. So casual and nonchalant, like we didn't just share that intense moment together. Like we didn't just desperately grapple with saying fuck it and going at it like teenagers on my kitchen floor.

God... Why did I put that image in my head?

My body is still aflame, and my mind is now racing, but I follow his lead and shrug at his question. "Uh... No."

"Thought so."

He gazes around my kitchen for a moment longer then pushes away from the counter and heads out to the living room, bee-lining for the front door. I find him there lingering in the open doorway and smiling so lightly I also don't notice it. His eyes are also soft in that way they get whenever he talks about Val or Betsy. It's a gorgeous look on him.

"It's late, old man," he tells me, and I smile fondly, knowing he's several years older than I am.

"Sure you're heading straight to bed and not saddling up for the Great Cryptid Hunt of '17?"

"Hell no. I'd never embark on a journey of that magnitude without some back up."

"Good looking out. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

He huffs and glances behind him to his house across the street. The lights of his garage are bright, illuminating our chairs still side by side in front of his truck with empty beer bottles and his small whiskey glass on the ground. I'd offer to help clean up, but I know he'd never let me. He's just that kinda guy.

I decide to voice my thoughts about something that I just can't shake from my mind before he leaves and I regret not asking. When he answers, though, I regret asking in the first place.

"...Do you really jack off to me every night?"

He smirks as he leaves, and it's so devilishly teasing that I almost grab him by the hips and drag him back inside right there.

"Not just in my bathroom," he says over his shoulder, "Also other places I can see myself banging you."

I can't tell if he's kidding or not.

I have a hard time falling asleep after that, because _Dear God_ , but, once I do, my dreams are full of chaotic flashes of tan skin and dark eyes, the bed of a red pickup truck full of sloshing amber liquid, and a beautiful forest with slivers of wood that form the shape of Mothman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	2. Chapter 2

"Right there! Those lights in the sky that just went past! David!"

"I think that was an airplane..."

"Well, now you look like a jackass. That's exactly what they want you to think."

"Shit," I smile at Robert. "Just go on without me then."

Without a word, he shrugs off his leather jacket, walks around me, and drapes it over my shoulders.

"When they come for you," he says, his breath hot on my ear, his hands heavy on my shoulders, "and they _will_  come for you... mention my family name. You may get spared. Or not."

Sometimes, his unshakable commitment to his jokes honestly scares me.

We're at the edge of the overlook where Robert comes to ~~masturbate~~  think. I had hopped off the back of his truck because I couldn't stand sitting while buzzing with so much excitement and feeling like I'm 16 years old again. He had hopped off to follow me after a minute or two, wandering over to me and catching me with those dark eyes of his.

I put my arms through his jacket he draped over me so I'm wearing it and feel like a proper bad-ass. I feel the cold metal handle of a folding knife inside the left pocket.

Robert looks good in the red tank top he was wearing under his jacket. Freakishly, heart-stoppingly good. To distract myself before I actually go into cardiac arrest, I bend down and pick up a chunk of wood.

"Good whittling wood?" I offer it to him. He doesn't take it, but nods in approval.

"Good whittling wood."

It's soft from the damp earth and a little mossy, but if Robert Whittling Small thinks it's good then who am I to question his wood wisdom?

We were drinking earlier, like we almost always do, then drove from Robert's house to come out here. I'm still a little loose and buzzed, feeling young and reckless, so I take the knife out of Robert's jacket pocket and flick it open.

"You gonna do something with that?" he asks. His low voice implies a threat, like I'm about to stab him with it. He furrows his brow. "Did you think about stabbing me just now?"

Shit. How did he know?

We settle back down on the bed of his truck again, his leather jacket warm on my body. It smells like him, this deep, earthy, manly smell that makes me want to close my eyes and drown in it. It won't hurt to indulge a little, but I pause my carving so I don't chop my thumb off when I close my eyes. I tilt my head down and inhale, and it feels like my lungs fill up with pure Robert. It's heavenly.

I sigh out, my breath hitching mid-way when I feel something hard press against the center of my chest. The barrel of a small, almost perfectly crafted wooden gun is being held against my chest. Though it's just wood, it stuns me for a second. I look up to see Robert staring me down.

"Today's a good day to die," is all he says.

It's meant to be joke, I think, but his face is kind of... serious. There's nothing humorous in it.

He slides the wooden barrel down my chest to the top of my jeans and stops there, then smirks to himself and pulls away.

"Robert...?" I hesitantly ask, because I can't make sense of anything that just happened or came out of his mouth, which is a frequent thing with Robert, but doubly so now.

"I'm in a driving mood." He abruptly stands and begins to pack his things away. "Let's drive somewhere."

I put my knife and oddly-shaped carving that was beginning to look like a chicken nugget into his jacket pocket and follow him around to the front of the truck, knowing that something is absolutely wrong with him but that I absolutely should not mention it. If I do, he'll clam up like a bank vault and it won't do either of us any good.

So he gets in his truck and I get in beside him. The lights of the city blind me with their nighttime beauty as Robert pulls away from the cliff and drives back down to the highway. Though he's only doing a few over the speed limit, I feel like we're flying. Maybe it's the lack of other cars on the road, or the fact that we're both still buzzed. My mind glosses over the danger, over the complete stupidity of drunk driving, and, for some reason, over Robert's dead wife.

On a whim, I end up leaning over and putting a hand on Robert's knee. His head is tilted back, eyes glued to the long stretch of road in front of us, and he doesn't budge when I squeeze his knee and trail my hand up his thigh, wondering the whole time why I'm doing this. I just wanted some kind of contact between us, I guess.

"Wanna get food?" he asks, but I'm touching his thigh like a weirdo, so what the hell do I know anymore?

It's unclear whether he wants me to stop or not, but he reaches down, entwines our fingers, drags our joined hands further up his thigh, and keeps my hand pinned there for the entire drive back to town. Maybe so I can't roam into dangerous territory. I both smile and blush at the thought.

We stop to get burritos at that place on the bayside, chowing down in Robert's truck while driving back to the center of town. A few stray fireflies near the beach blink goodbye to us in the rear view mirror as we return to civilization.

The truck comes to a stop for the second time when he pulls over and parks across the street from the liquor store. There's no one in sight, but the lights in the liquor store are brighter than ever, beckoning lonely souls to step inside and give themselves over to sweet oblivion. Oh, hell. _Dammit_ , Robert...

"Hey," I try to stop him when he exits the car, opening my door but staying seated. "Robert, no."

He just keeps walking and doesn't look back.

I stay fidgeting in the car and watching the front door through the back window, mentally preparing myself to confront him and confiscate whatever he bought when he gets back. It was bad enough that he drove while buzzed, which I didn't mention, for lack of better judgement myself, but if he thinks I'm going sit by and let him drink alcohol while he's driving then he's crazy.

He comes back with something in a brown bag, but, when he gets back in the driver's seat, he shoves the bag into my lap instead of opening it himself.

"Robert, you shouldn't..."

My prepared speech trails off when he turns the radio on and leans back in his seat, watching me patiently like he's waiting for something. I narrow my eyes in confusion, peel open the bag, and see a bottle of rose-colored wine: White Zinfandel. Robert's favorite wine, if I'm remembering correctly. Did he buy this for me...?

"Don't look so scared," he says, tired eyes now staring through the front window. There's a slight frown on his face. "I wouldn't kill you."

"I just... thought..." My cheeks flush in embarrassment. I can't admit that I thought he was about to recklessly pound this back while driving. Robert is a pretty reckless guy, all things considered, but guilt cripples me now for making that assumption. Robert mentioned it in such a vague way and didn't want to say much, but from what he implied, I'm almost 90% sure that's how his wife died... With him drunk behind the wheel.

He clears his throat and looks out his side window, rolling his shoulders back. He must be having similar painful thoughts. God, how could he not be... I'm such an idiot. I just implied that he was going to get drunk behind the wheel and risk killing me the same way his wife died...

Or maybe I'm just making grand assumptions, and his wife really did just get into a random accident that had nothing to do with alcohol. With Robert, it's hard to know the truth, because he's constantly telling so little of it. I doubt I ever will know what is really the truth.

"I'm sorry," I tell him quietly, my chest aching, regretting that I can't say or do more, but he just chuckles and starts the truck up, pulling away from the side of the road.

"You should be," Robert mutters, not without humor, now driving us home towards the cul-de-sac. "You killed the mood with your hopeless worrying. After touching my leg earlier, too. How dare you."

Wait. Oh.

'The mood'? Did he get this wine for me to set a mood? Because I touched his... Oh. _Oh_.

My cheeks burn. Did I just ruin Robert's attempt at flirting with me by assuming that he was going to fall victim to his vices, because I think I just ruined Robert's attempt at flirting with me by assuming that he was going to fall victim to his vices.

"Wait!" I exclaim, very embarrassed and very flustered, sitting forward in my seat. Robert laughs. "You were... You've been quiet and somber all night! I thought you were thinking about your past... You know!"

"About Marilyn? No, not really. Quiet nights just puts me in a somber mood sometimes."

"But...! You said earlier, 'It's a good day to die'! What the hell was I supposed to think about that?!"

"Oh, that? I was trying to be morbid and scare you with my wooden gun. Looks like it worked. Go, me."

"Robert!" I reprimand, completely appalled. He laughs hard as he pulls into his driveway, then turns the engine off and laughs some more.

I stare at Robert's alight face, his bright smile, his eyes closed from how hard he's laughing, crinkles at their corners, small dimples on his cheeks. The sight is breathtaking even if it is laughter at my expense. I fall back on the only thing a Dad like myself can do when backed into a corner like this...

"Well," I mutter, "I didn't mean to wine. You bottle up your emotions. I had every raisin to be worried..."

"Get out of my car right now," Robert orders, still giggling.

I follow orders like a good boy and step out of his car, walking around to the front of it. Robert steps out, too, and meets me halfway, wrapping his arms around my waist and backing me up towards his house.

"Robert," I start, another wine pun primed and ready for deployment, but my words are stolen when Robert suddenly kisses me. Hard.

My back hits the front of his house, and he presses me against it with his body, kissing me deeply. All I can do is grab at his arm with my one hand that's not holding the bag of wine and struggle to keep up. I get to catch my breath when he leans back, panting against my mouth.

"Sorry," he whispers, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. His hand worms in between our bodies and grabs my upper thigh. "Pay back."

"Robert," I gasp, tilting my head back against the siding of his house, thoroughly worked up. His hand squeezes my thigh, his thumb close to my crotch. I push my hips against the pressure.

"You started it," he accuses against my jaw, pressing another kiss there. His other hand grabs my hip, squeezing there, too. "Friends don't touch other friend's thighs, David..."

I rebel and push forward again, so he moves his hand from my thigh to rest gently over my crotch, daring me to push forward once more. I do again, almost involuntarily this time, and now he grabs and holds the outline of my dick through my jeans.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath, feeling his victorious smile against my jaw.

"If you start something, I _will_  finish it."

"Then finish it," I half-beg, half-moan, tilting my head down to look into his eyes. They're deep and dark and full of desire, a playful smile still on his lips.

He's so handsome that I never want to look away. I don't even care that we're doing this outside in plain sight, in the middle of a cul-de-sac full of other families. This is what Robert does to me.

When I reach for the front of his jeans, he grabs my arm before I can touch him and twists me around, now pressing me face-first against his house. I bite my lip, holding back a moan as he presses his body against me from behind and fishes around my jacket pocket for something. Then he suddenly leans back, peels his leather jacket off me, and slaps my ass.

I wait for more, but nothing more happens, so I turn around to see him shouldering his jacket and holding something in his hand. Before I can say anything, he reaches out and drops my weird chicken nugget wood carving into the paper bag with my wine.

"...Uh-"

"Go to bed. You're drunk," he says with a teasing smile, then walks away and heads to his front door.

I'm left leaning against his house in a daze.

"Quit loitering on my property," he calls out as he steps inside, closing his front door behind him.

I linger out of pure astonishment, staring at my own house across the street, until I realize that I have nothing left to do but slowly slink across the cul-de-sac to my house with a half boner.

And I thought I felt like a 16 year old _earlier_...

I've turned on the TV, put my wine in the fridge, and have collapsed onto the couch when my phone dings in my pants pocket. It's Robert.

'hey'  
'remember that time you asked if i jack off to you every night?'  
'guess what i'm doing tonight'  
':)'  
'guess'  
':)'

I don't bother guessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert-centric chapter ....all aboard the feels train.

'hey'  
'gm'  
'you awake?'  
'sleepyhead'  
'i can see you'  
'jk'

These are the messages I wake up to at 9:00 in the morning. I'm heading to the kitchen for coffee when my cellphone, which I left on the sofa the night before, dings with a notification. The newest notification from Robert is a picture. Before looking at that, I scroll up to read the previous messages. They were all sent in a flurry at 8:34 this morning.

Wait.

8:34...? Am I still dreaming?

Robert was awake at 8:34?! Robert woke up before I did? What has this impostor done with the real Robert? This new fake Robert seems to have taken over his body, existing at 8 in the morning, a time at which the real Robert would be deep in an alcohol-induced hibernation. Or did Robert just never go to bed last night? I haven't spoken to the man in a few days so anything is possible, I suppose.

I take a sip of coffee and settle on my couch, scrolling down to the picture he sent not five minutes ago. It's a photo of a red coffee mug held by a slender hand with long painted nails.

'from val'  
'she told me to have breakfast'  
'i hate breakfast'  
'you up yet?'

I smile at it. It's touching that Robert's daughter sent him that photo. It reminds me of Amanda sometimes texting me selfies of her in various places on campus. And coming from Val, whom Robert didn't contact at all for 4 whole years, knowing that she forgives him enough to share personal photos like this must mean the world to him.

I shoot him a quick message back.

'That's sweet of her! Yes, have some breakfast, Robert, your body will thank you for it.'

'no'  
'can't'

'What'

'dunno what to make'  
'come over and help me'  
'wanna take a pic for val'

My heart melts a little at that. Robert is taking steps to become such a good father that it touches a place in my own Dad heart. I don't know what it's like to be estranged with a child, but I can tell that Robert is serious about making amends.

Even if he doesn't want to eat breakfast for himself, just wanting to make something for a picture to send to Val is a big step up from avoiding breakfast altogether and sleeping in throughout the day. I know that Robert still has a long way to go with his negative self-image and destructive habits. Compared to what he was like when we first met, this is actually a huge step in the right direction.

He messages me again just as I'm about to head out the door to his place.

'bring food'

I head to my kitchen then pause.

'What kind of food?'

'breakfast food', he says.

Wow. Helpful, Robert. I think for a while before grabbing a loaf of bread and a cartoon of eggs, then head out the door.

Craig is in his driveway a few houses down, packing a duffle bag into the backseat of his car, most likely preparing to run or hike or do any manner of rigorous physical activity that I couldn't achieve even if I gave it all my blood, sweat, tears, and under-exercised muscles. He gives me a wave and a bright smile, and I struggle to wave back with my armful of bread. I remind myself to hit him up on Dadbook later this week and maybe join him on one of his jogs. Now that Amanda is gone, the only real exercise I've gotten recently has been wandering bar streets with Robert.

I knock on Robert's door and am left standing for about a minute or two before he opens it and gives me a confused look.

"It's unlocked, David."

"You tell me that now, after I stood out here waiting?!"

"You brought food," he observes, ignoring my complaint. "Good man. Come in."

The poor man looks about as disheveled and exhausted as I expected him to look. I've always known him to be nocturnal, a creature of the night, so he must be going through hell right now. His hair is messy in a way that's both sloppy and sexy, though most things about Robert, no matter how bad, are also accompanied by an air of sexiness. He's wearing a dark grey tank top and a pair of faded and wrinkled jeans that have certainly seen better days. He sways on his feet as he leads me to his kitchen.

I set my meager ingredients down on his cluttered counter top while he practically collapses into a seat at a small dining table nearby.

"Has something possessed you, Robert? Why are you up this early?"

"So you knew," he mutters back. He braces his elbows on the table and runs his hands through his hair, slumping in his seat. "I can feel it trying to gain control over my body as we speak..."

I smile to myself, listening to him talk while I open his cabinets one by one and access his dire food situation.

"Last night, I heard a strange knock on my window. When I got up to check, there was nothing there," he tells me, his voice deep and serious. "Was about to fall asleep when I heard it again. Only this time, my window flew open on its own."

"Really? What a pane in the glass."

"You should have seen me shutter. But I saw my window of opportunity, and I took it."

Okay, it's official. I just fell more in love with this man.

"When I got up to close it," Robert continues, dad jokes aside, "something had already entered the room. Something beyond human explanation."

"Please tell me you had a knife ready," I play along, plugging in his dusty toaster.

"Who do you think I am? I always have a knife ready. Keep up, David. Didn't matter this time, though. I had let my guard down. My first and last mistake. Whatever it was had already captured my soul and entered my body. So I couldn't fall back to sleep. That thing wouldn't let me... Even now, it keeps me awake."

"Hm," I hum thoughtfully, resisting the urge to break into giggles. "And the real reason?"

Robert pauses and looks at me with a stern face.

"One of Joseph's little brats threw rocks at my window and woke me up at 8 in the morning."

This time, I can't hold back my laughter. Robert glares like I've betrayed him.

"So why didn't you go back to sleep?" I ask, still chuckling.

"Saw Val's picture and couldn't. Then she asked me to make _breakfast_ ," he mutters in despair, as if she'd asked him to throw himself in front of a train.

When he moves to stand and plants a hand on the table to push himself up, he puts too much weight on it to the point where it tips before rocking back to a stable position. It catches my eye, and Robert glances to me briefly before staggering off to his living room, almost tripping over his own feet.

No way... Don't tell me. It can't be.

Is he... drunk right now?

"Robert?" I call out to him, our previous friendly and happy atmosphere beginning to shatter.

I leave the bread on the counter and wander into his messy living room where I find him in front of his waist-high booze tray. There's an opened bottle of bourbon on the tray, more than half empty. No, he can't be...

"Robert?" I beckon again, softer this time.

He looks up, his brown eyes half-closed, shoulders slouched, still swaying. He's staring at me like we're both floating underwater in the eye of a whirlpool. I thought he was just tired. I thought he just wasn't a morning person and was exhausted. But he's actually...

"Sup?" he mumbles, now so obviously drunk. Why wasn't it obvious before? Why didn't I pay more attention...?

"Um... Do you want anything extra with your eggs?" I find myself asking, instead of everything else I meant to ask.

 _Anything_ else would have been better. Like why are you drinking at 8 in the morning, or why have you downed half a bottle of liquor within 30 minutes of waking up, what's wrong, is something wrong, promise you'll tell me if something is wrong because I can't take watching you quietly suffer and hide your feelings behind booze and jokes- _Anything_ other than what actually came out of my dumb mouth.

Robert shrugs with one shoulder. The gesture is loosely-controlled, heavy.

"Whatever you think is good, Master Chef."

"Right," I breathe, turning on my heel and walking back to the kitchen. I don't know if Robert is drinking more in the living room when I turn my back, but a sick feeling in my gut tells me that he is. He seemed to be making so much positive progress over the past weeks, too... I don't understand why he would do this.

I toast the bread and scramble the eggs on auto-pilot, arranging two plates on the small dining table after I clear it off, putting empty liquor bottles and stray clothes on the floor nearby, where Robert's daughter won't be able to see them in the picture he wants to send her. When I call out to him that everything's ready, he shuffles in and plops down in the seat next to mine, eyeing his eggs and toast like it's roadkill. It's a little insulting, but he's a drunken mess of a man right now, so I let it slide.

"Dig in," I tell him, passing over a fork. He seems even more drunk now, probably from the alcohol sitting on his empty stomach and how he most likely took more swigs while I was in the kitchen cooking.

"Thanks, housewife," he murmurs affectionately, and I blush. I know he doesn't really mean anything. He's just drunk and saying whatever comes to his mind. But that doesn't stop his deep voice from affecting me.

"You should come over more often," he continues, fixing me with a heavy gaze. "Or just stay the night, so you don't have to come over at all..."

"Robert," I mutter, trying to get him to stop, but it seems like me saying his name only encourages him.

"Yes, David?" he purrs with a smirk.

"Eat your breakfast, please."

His dark eyes scan my face for a moment, making me self-conscious.

"I wanna have something _else_ for breakfast..."

I end up choking on my eggs and violently coughing, covering my warm face with my hand while Robert snickers at my reaction.

Before attempting to eat, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of the food while giving a thumbs up beside the plate with his left hand. He stares at the photo for a few seconds, quiet, then shoves his phone at me. In his intoxicated state, he fails to check his strength, and I flinch away, rubbing the spot where he basically banged the corner of his phone against my elbow.

"Send it to her for me?" he slurs. He looks rather vulnerable and sounds very sweet when he asks, so I take his phone and send the photo to Val for him. After a second thought, I also send one of those heart emojis, because Robert is trying so damn hard right now and I need Val to know that.

"So, why are you drunk, Robert?" I mention casually, and he freezes like he wasn't expecting me to notice. He recovers, though, and starts prodding at the eggs I made for him.

"Why aren't you?" he asks, avoiding the question.

Figures. I sigh. His phone vibrates once in my hand.

'Who is this?' the message reads.

"What- How did she know?!" I hiss, and Robert raises an eyebrow in curiosity, now slumping over the table, trying to see his phone.

'It's David, one of your father's friends.' I text back.

'Oh, you. I knew he would never use emojis. Or would he...?'  
'Tell him that looks good and to have a good day.'  
'Take care of him, David.'

'Always.'

'David, excuse my French, but "one of his friends" my ass.'

'...'  
'We really are just friends.'

'Sure. Enjoy your breakfast.'

"What're you texting?" Robert mumbles with a frown, now laying his head down sideways on his arm. His plate sits in front of him, barely touched. I wonder just how much more he drank when I wasn't looking. "Wasn't a good picture, huh... She hate me yet?"

Oh God, it's so much worse than I thought.

It's all because of Val... He was drinking because of Val... Because Val texted him and he desperately didn't want to disappoint her. He said he stayed up this morning when he saw her text instead of going back to sleep. The stress of messing things up, no matter how simple they may be, as simple as making breakfast and sending a picture, must have driven him to drink in a reckless attempt to alleviate his anxiety.

And now here he is, slumped over at his table in front of his food, mumbling sleepily about his own daughter hating him for sending a bad photo. God, Robert...

My heart swells for him until it might burst. I stand and round the table, leaning down to help him up and over to his couch so he can lay down there instead of messily draping himself over this small table.

His arm slips from around my shoulders, and he falls to the floor half-way there. In all our nights drinking together, this is by far the worst I've ever seen him.

"Robert," I say gently, kneeling down on the floor in front of him while he struggles into a sitting position. "Robert, bud, you okay?"

"She hates me," he just mumbles, teetering like he's about to flop over onto the floor again. His eyes roam over my chest, having a hard time focusing on one thing. He's absolutely wasted. "Fuckin' hates me, I knew it... Just like her mother... Fuck..."

"Robert..." I take his hands into mine and hold them tight. They're shaking. "She said it looked good, Robert. She told you to have a good day."

Robert doesn't say anything for a very long time. Then, slowly, a tear slips from his lashes and carves a silent path down his cheek. I wipe it away and hold him in my arms until he calms down, then get him a cup of water and sit with him on the ground until he's ready to try and eat breakfast again.

He manages to finish it this time. He had to excuse himself once to vomit, but he makes it through and keeps most of his food down. Afterwards, he tells me he wants to be alone for the rest of the day, which is understandable. It hurts that deep down I know he's going to go on one of those week or longer periods where he doesn't contact me at all or respond to any of my texts. I can tell from the way he's avoiding eye contact and standing with his arms crossed, closed-off and brooding.

I just hope he doesn't do something nearly this drastic during that time. It's obvious that he doesn't want to talk anymore about it, but I can't leave for possibly a week or more without hearing from him before saying what I need him to hear first.

"Just so you know," I mention as I finish clearing the table for him. He's doing better now, kind of; still drunk, but not an emotional wreck anymore.

"Hm?" he hums, leaning against the wall nearby, watching me.

"Don't change for others. It never works. The only person Robert should be trying to better himself for is Robert. That's the only way you'll ever change."

Robert is silent for a while, staring at me with tired eyes.

"But I hate Robert," he mutters eventually. "Fuck that guy."

It hurts to hear that, but I smile, anyway.

"Oh, believe me. I'd love to fuck that guy," I mention as I pass, delighted when I hear his loud laugh from behind me. The faint sound of his laughter drifts through his closed front door and follows me as I walk across his lawn. When I get in my house, I lean against my door, rub my hands down my face, and laugh into them.

It hits me that I forgot all my bread and eggs over there, but when I think about either Robert or me having them, I decide that I don't want to take them back.

Later, at night, he messages me a photo he got from Val of her dinner. She's giving a thumbs up beside the plate with her left hand, mirroring what Robert did in his own photo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer one this time :o

Yesterday, Amanda sent me a picture of the grade she got for a mid-term project in one of her photography classes, and I've been over the moon since I saw it. It received a stunning A+. I could not be more happy and proud of her.

When I asked her if I could print out the picture and put it on the wall, she told me that would simultaneously make me totally uncool and the best Dad ever, so I printed it out posted it up on the wall by our front door without a second thought. It's there to greet me every time I walk into the living room or head out the front door, as emotions that can only be described as Intense Dad Feelings swell within my heart. I really do miss my Manda Panda...

The thought of her makes me smile now, my eyes glancing to the picture on the wall as I head to my front door for a late-night shopping trip. Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers always puts me the mood for some ice cream, and I must rectify the fact that there is not a single carton of ice cream in my freezer posthaste.

I zip up my black "The Walking Dad" hoodie that Amanda got me from Dead, Goth & Beyond before she left. I've never actually watched The Walking Dead, but the outstanding Dad joke was more than enough to sell me on it. And the fact that my Panda bought it for me.

I walk past her grade photo on the wall and open my front door to see... Mary. Standing there with her hand raised like she was about to knock on the door. Now that she can't do that, she reaches forward to tap her knuckles against my chest instead.

"Knock, knock," she says as she does it.

"Who's there?" I immediately respond. Spiking down jokes that are set up, whether intentionally or unintentionally, is just second nature for me at this point.

"My God, you are hopeless..." She crosses her arms over her brown sweater. "Are you busy right now?"

"Uh..." I hesitate, glancing back into my house, where my TV is still on and playing Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers. I stare at it longingly. "Uh... Ye.. Yea..."

"Robert's coming."

"No," I decide, facing her again. She laughs and gives me a knowing smirk.

"Thought so."

Against my better judgement and intense desire for vegging out and eating ice cream, I turn my TV off and follow her out of my house towards what I presume is Jim and Kim's. I don't bother changing, far too proud of my The Walking Dad hoodie to worry about the possible uncoolness of it.

I haven't seen Robert in... three weeks now, I think. I've texted him a few times trying to get a response and set up several possible days for us to hang out, but he either didn't reply or just shared a photo that Val sent him recently. A few days ago, I asked him if he was okay, just to make sure, and he sent me a single word reply three days later: "yeah".

I can't help but feel giddy now, thinking about seeing him again after so long. The last time we were together wasn't exactly the healthiest interaction. Maybe it's ironic that we're about to meet at a bar, surrounded by alcohol again. Meeting at bars is Mary and Robert's thing, though, so I doubt anything I can say will change that.

Mary is quiet as we walk together, probably deep in thought, but I remind myself that she's not Robert and ask her how she's doing to make small talk.

"I'll give you three options," she says. "Option A: good, option B: bad, or option C: I need someone to inject wine directly into my bloodstream before I explode."

"I'm gonna go with option C here."

"You're a smart man," she smiles.

"Things that rough for you?"

"When aren't they?"

I have a feeling it has something to do with Joseph, but I don't say anything more about it. If Mary wants to come out and drink with me and Robert to forget her problems then I have no right to keep bringing them up. As we get close to Jim and Kim's, I put my arm around her shoulders, and she looks to me with wide eyes before smiling.

"Ooo. People will talk," she teases.

"Oh, let them," I joke, escorting her into the bar.

I keep my arm around her while she orders a drink from Neil, just for the hell of it.

"If you guys were planning a threesome, I should have been the first to know about it, you know," says a deep voice from behind us.

Robert touches my lower back as he passes by, heading to a booth at the back of the bar with a drink in his hand. Mary laughs at his comment, already duel-wielding full glasses of wine. She wanders away from my side and towards a younger gentleman drinking alone while I order a beer from Neil and head to Robert's booth.

I slide into the seat across from him, and he glances from my face to my hoodie, smiling when he reads the Dad joke on it. He stays quiet, but the amused smile lingers on his face as he takes a drink and goes back to people-watching. I sip my beer and enjoy the comfortable silence between us.

Robert has on a tight black shirt under his trademark leather jacket with a pair of snug-fitting jeans. I let my eyes wander over that handsome face I haven't seen in weeks, down the curve of his neck, to his broad chest emphasized by that tight shirt. Yeah... That episode of Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers can definitely wait.

When he catches me staring, he plants an elbow on the table and braces his fist against his jaw. I just keep staring before I notice that he's waiting for me to say something.

"How have you been?"

"You know I hate questions like that," he mutters, then sighs tiredly, downing another mouthful of whiskey.

"But we're friends, aren't we? Friends ask friends questions like that, Robert. Especially when they haven't seen them in forever."

"Forever?" He smirks, looking down at the beer in my hand. "Well, sorry, best friend."

"Excuse me?" Mary asks in disgust as she approaches, sliding in next to Robert and already slipping her third - fourth? Fifth? - glass of wine. "I heard that, you fuckin' cheater."

"Come on. You know the type of person I am by now, Mary," Robert says, and Mary's eyes widen in gradual understanding before she tilts her head back and cackles. Whatever they're referencing is lost on me...

"Men," Mary mumbles to herself, looking down into the deep red of her wine. Her smile doesn't fall, but becomes tinged with bitterness, like she's taken a bite of a poisoned apple. I stay quiet and sip on my beer some more, not sure there's anything I can add to this conversation.

"Hey. David." Mary drapes an arm over the table and grabs my wrist. Well, there goes staying out of the conversation. "Tell me one good thing about men. Just one."

"Uh..." I glance to Robert for help, but he's staring across the bar again, the rim of his glass held to his lips. "Um, I mean. We're, uh... Well..."

"Exactly," Mary interrupts, her fingernails lightly trailing over my wrist to my hand. It sends a shiver through me. She steals the beer right out of my grasp and brings it to her lips to chug it. I watch on in a mixture of confusion and slight fear.

Once she's done, she belches and slams the bottle down on the table, then sighs and tips it over with her index finger. It clatters on the table and rolls, so I grab it before it can roll to the floor and shatter. Without another word, she pats Robert on the arm and rises out of the booth, swaying her hips with the movement, then saunters away towards a group of men at the front of the bar. I watch her leave, speechless.

"Is she... okay?" I whisper to Robert when I'm sure she's far enough away to not hear me.

"Hm?" Robert glances over with an air of disinterest, like that entire exchange is something normal for Mary, then goes back to his people-watching. "Oh, yeah. Probably a fight with Joseph or something."

I fiddle with my now empty beer bottle. I'm about to go order another one when Robert sits up straight, finishes the whiskey in his glass, then looks into my eyes.

"Going out for a smoke. Wanna come with?"

"I don't smoke."

"I'm not asking you to, David," he stresses, then stands and walks out of the bar, leaving his empty glass on the table.

Oh. He just wants me to join him outside. I think?

Wow. I might be the least smooth person on this entire Earth. Maybe Amanda was right. At least I've got my amazing Dad hoodie to comfort me, though. Or is that not smooth and cool, either...? What if an un-cool person can never tell what's cool or not because of their own curse of un-coolness, so I can never know what is cool and what isn't cool and am destined to this perpetual fate of un-coolness for the rest of my life?

I exit the bar and join Robert outside while suffering from a minor existential crisis. I realize I even carried my empty beer bottle out here with me like an idiot. Robert's around the side of the building, leaning against the wall in the nearby alleyway. He sees me and sighs out white trails of smoke into the air, looking cooler than I ever could in my entire life. I briefly wonder why the hell he's even interested in a guy like me when he could have any other man in the world.

When he sees me, he makes an O with his mouth and puffs out an impressively good smoke ring that I walk through to get to him. Some people see it as rude when others blow their cigarette smoke at them, and, normally, I would, too, but this is Robert and I'm a little biased - okay, more than a little - so I just smile and wave the ring up into the night air. The warm smoke curls and dissipates around my fingertips.

"Not trying to quit?" I ask gently, concerned but not wanting to be overbearing about his habits.

He doesn't seem too offended, looking down at the cigarette he's holding and shrugging. He takes one more long drag on it then drops it to the ground, stomping it out with his heel. I'm proud of him.

"What are you gonna do with that?" he nods towards me. I follow his gaze and raise the empty bottle I'm holding.

"Uh, nothing. I should probably go throw this away..."

"Give it here."

I give it there. Robert bounces its weight in his hand, then looks to the sky and reels his arm back.

Oh god.

I brace myself as, with a grunt, Robert throws the bottle as hard as he can into the air. It arches over my head and shatters into pieces on the curb across the street. He sighs after it lands, sounding satisfied with himself.

"You have problems," I tell him bluntly, and he laughs, not denying it.

"I missed you, you know," I say after a while of silence between us, before I can convince myself not to, then feel like a fool for saying so. Do I even have a right to miss him? It's not like we're dating; not anything close to it. Robert doesn't even _want_  to date me yet. He made that very clear.

"Did you?" He steps closer until I can smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. His hand captures mine, playing with it, his thumb passing over each of my fingers. I'm freeze on the spot, staring into his eyes. "How long's it been? Two, three weeks?"

"Something like that," I whisper.

"Here I am, David. Right in front of you." He's close enough to kiss now. Our hands are locked, fingers entwined.

"Yeah..." I breathe. The way he said 'Here I am'... Like he wants me to do something about it. I wet my lips, watching his eyes dart down to the movement.

"How much did you miss me?" he murmurs, his voice rough. It's a pointless question. It almost doesn't register to me, anyway, because I'm watching his lips form the words as he says it. Robert hates pointless questions. He wouldn't ask them for no reason. He's not asking this one for an answer. We're not even talking about me missing him anymore.

"So much..." I tell him, breathless. His grip on my hand tightens.

"How much?" he pushes, his gaze heavy, locked on my eyes.

My lips part, but no words come out. Only a light sigh breathed into Robert's face. He takes a deep breath like he wants to swallow it whole.

"Hey!"

I flinch violently, but Robert leans back with a casual movement, cool and collected. Mary's at the end of the alleyway by the bar, unsteady on her feet as she careens over to us. Looks like it was a successful night of bumming drinks off of poor horny saps.

"Just gonna ditch me, boys?" she asks, throwing her arms out and pouting. "I'd expect it from him, but, you, David?"

Her eyes dart down to our connected hands, but, without a word, Robert raises his other hand and holds it out to her, too. She takes it and threads their fingers together, then Robert takes the lead and walks us both out of the alleyway and down the street. Mary giggles, swinging her and Robert's hands between them, and I just try to catch my breath again. Robert gives my hand a quick squeeze.

We walk all the way back to the cul-de-sac like that, neither Mary nor I letting go of Robert until we've both walked him up to his front door. He has little to say except goodnight, but shoots me a complex look that I can't exactly read.

I can't lie; I'm disappointed I didn't get more time with him. After three weeks, I just wanted... Well, I don't know what I wanted. When I'm with Robert, it feels like no amount of time is enough. Never got to order that second beer, either.

Without Robert to hold onto anymore, Mary grabs my hand and leads me to her front door.

"Your hoodie is cute, by the way," she tells me, taking a few clumsy tries to fit her key into the lock. "You're cute. You two are just cute together. Really."

She spins on her heel to face me, her long hair flicking over her shoulder. She looks so beautiful when she does it, loose from wine and a quiet, subdued loneliness that is so painfully relatable that I lean forward and kiss her cheek to make her smile, chuckling when she gasps and exaggeratedly depicts herself swooning against her front door. I stay on her doorstep until she's safely twirled into her house, kicking off her heels as she does so and closing the door with her hip after blowing me a playful kiss back.

When I step into my house, I tell the picture of Amanda's grades on the wall that I'm home. It's funny that we went to a bar, and I didn't even have a full beer. Even though it's now past my bedtime, I curl up on the couch and mindlessly watch TV until my phone makes a noise on the coffee table.

'cute hoodie', Robert messaged.

Wow. Compliments from both Mary _and_  Robert. Maybe it's less un-cool than I thought. Go Amanda for getting it for me.

'Thanks,' I message back after some thought, 'You looked good tonight, too.'

It says that Robert read my message, but more than ten minutes pass before I get a response.

'thanks'

Another five minutes pass. My phone tells me I've gotten another message when I'm in the kitchen digging around for snacks.

'i missed you too btw'  
'still miss you'

The last message makes me pause. I stare at it for about a minute straight before I reply.

'Still? You just saw me.'

I don't get anything back until I'm laying in bed around 30 minutes later, having abandoned my snacks. My gut will thank me for it later. I reach over in the darkness and fumble for my phone on the night stand, its bright screen almost blinding me.

'i know', Robert said.  
'just want to see you more'

I'm in the middle of typing a reply when another message comes in.

'i really want you'

I spend a few minutes trying to think of how to respond to that while my heart hammers against my chest. I end up cowardly sending something that doesn't involve words so I can't mess this up somehow.

'❤️'

Unlike everything else, Robert replies to that immediately.

'i hate emojis'

Wow. Messed it up already.

'Sorry.'  
'Emoji retracted.'

'it's fine'  
'❤️'  
'wanted to kiss you tonight'  
'maybe i should have'  
'want to kiss you rn'

Oh man. What can I even say to that?

'Oh, I see.'

NICE ONE, DAVID.

'yeah'  
'and do more'

I can only watch his string of texts continue, feeling my face grow warm with each one.

'shove you onto my bed'  
'take your cute hoodie off'  
'kiss your neck'

Dear _God_. I've never done anything like this before. Not even remotely.

Is this what "sexting' is, I realize in horror, feeling my body gradually react to his messages. Is this what the news warned me to watch out for on my child's phone when Amanda was in high school? My phone receives another message as I go through my second existential crisis of the day.

'wyd right now'

I can't just say "laying in bed", can I...? Is that sexy enough? Is that sexy at all?! I certainly don't feel sexy, just laying here in my worn pj pants and an over-sized shirt with a silly giraffe's face on it that I got three years ago with Amanda at a zoo. I hesitate.

'Laying in bed.'

'fuck david'  
'r u trying to make me come over there'

I almost drop my phone. That worked?! God, how do people do this...? I feel so warm and uncomfortable, even more so than I would if Robert were actually physically touching me. Something about us being apart in our separate homes makes this feel even more naughty.

'you wanna be here with me?'  
'in bed w me?'

'Yes', I type back, now squirming helplessly on my bed.

'what would you do if you were'

Before I can even formulate a complete thought on how to answer that, Robert answers for me.

'let me kiss you?'  
'or suck you off'  
'or bend you over'  
'make you cum'  
'u want that bby?'  
'me to fuck you?'  
'or do you wanna ride me'  
'come over in the next 5 mins i'll let u ride me'

I roll onto my stomach and shove my face into my pillow, my hand in a vice grip around my phone, wondering if he's serious or not. I'm not gonna lie, the wild urge to jump out of bed and bolt across the street in my pjs hits me hard. A few agonizing moments pass, and I have a mental battle with myself, fighting to unsee the unseeable image of me bouncing on his lap, until the next message comes in.

'haha'  
'can picture your face'  
'im jking david'

I lift my burning face from my pillow just enough to respond.

'Yeah. Haha. Oh mna. Funny jake.'  
'*man'  
'*joke'

'lmao'  
'wanted to see if you would rlly come over'  
'anyway hmu sometime soon'  
'we'll hang out again'  
'w/o mary'  
'bless her soul'

'Hmu???'

'how much u'  
'want in you'

'WHAT'

'its hit me up'  
'lol'  
'gn david'  
'❤️'

With shaking hands, I set my phone back on my nightstand, then lay in bed and stare at my ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened to me and if I've ever been as aroused in my life as I am right now. Just from words. Those little letters on the screen of my phone. So this is the power of sexting... The news wasn't lying.

With a defeated sigh, realizing I'm not getting sleep anytime soon in my current state, I roll out of bed and slump off to the bathroom, turning around to grab my phone off the nightstand after a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️  
> It will never not amuse and delight me that Robert canonly texts like a fuckboi, despite being the oldest dad. He is truly a gift to us all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blinked and feels happened.

"Robert?" I call out into the woods, squinting through the darkness and clutching the small pocket knife I was given. Something rustles in the grass to my right and I flinch, mentally preparing myself for the embrace of sudden death.

We're out in the woods at midnight. Cryptid hunting. Why would I agree to this? Because Robert. That's why.

I don't know what we're looking for, maybe Bigfoot, maybe the Dover ghost, definitely not Mothman, but here we are and here _I_  am, trekking through the grass and leaves and twigs in an old pair of boots while fighting to keep mosquitoes from eating me alive. In the midst of my stumbling, I catch sight of Robert's white tank top between trees in the distance and lock onto it. I'm a lost sailor out here and that muscular back is my only lighthouse.

"Robert!" I call out again, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even look back. Seriously?! Does he even know how physically unfit I am? There are two kinds of people in this world: those that jokingly say they would die in the wilderness and those that would _actually_  die in the wilderness. I don't think I need to clarify which kind I am.

The distance between us had been growing for a while now, but I hadn't thought anything of it until I frequently started losing sight of him behind the trees. We hadn't gone drinking beforehand, not like we would usually do, which both pleases and terrifies me. Hooray for not using alcohol as a crutch, but if we had shared drinks I'm sure my heart wouldn't be racing nearly as fast as it is now.

I click on my phone's flashlight and turn in a slow circle, squinting into the darkness around me and listening for any sign of movement. When I hear and see nothing, not a single thing, I take a deep breath and start to make my way towards the last place I saw Robert before I lost him, picking carefully through the stray debris on the forest floor.

"Hey, man..." I call out, much softer this time. I feel silly for thinking so, but if cryptids are real, _if_  they are, I am such a prime target for one right now that I might as well have stripped naked and buttered myself up with ancient creature aphrodisiac and then ran into the woods shouting that I'm ready to be taken. "Robert... If you can hear me, this isn't funny..."

Wood snaps under my heel, and I gasp, almost falling backwards. I raised my knife instinctively before realizing how stupidly dangerous that is. When something from behind me suddenly grabs my wrist and covers my mouth, I scream against whatever it is and flail, pushing hard against it until we're both falling backwards and I hear "shit" grunted from beneath me when we hit the ground.

I start to panic when I realize that Robert just snuck up behind me and, in response, I flailed wildly and tried to stab him with a knife. The knife's not in my hand anymore, so I must have dropped it, either when he grabbed me or when we fell. Or I... 

I try to roll off of him but I can't with one of his arms over my chest, pinning my body to his. His hand slides off my mouth, and I suck in a deep breath, groping at the ground by his hip for anything metal.

"Robert, what the fuck!" I hiss, struggling against him until he finally lets go. I sit up on his thighs, turning around so I can see him and know whether I hurt him or not. I frantically scan both him and the ground nearby for the knife, but I can't spot it anywhere. "What the _fuck_ , man?!"

"Wanted to scare you," Robert coughs, wincing. He lets his head thud back against the earth, his chest rising and falling as he breathes deeply.

"While I'm holding a damn knife?!" I run my hands up his sides then down his hips and legs, because if I did anything to harm this man in a life-threatening way I would regret it for as long as I live. I don't feel anything out of the ordinary, just the curves of his body through his clothes. Robert closes his eyes and shivers while I pat down the sides of his hips but says nothing more.

"I'm holding a knife and your first thought is to scare me?! Are you a fucking _idiot_?! Are you insane?!" I know what I'm saying is completely out of anger and fear, but I can't stop. Words flow from my mouth, stupid words that I can't take back, but my god I really thought I had stabbed him. "Yeah, smart move there, Robert! Scare the guy with the _damn_ knife!"

Robert opens his eyes and huffs out a short chuckle, smirking up at the night sky. I don't know what he's thinking, but right now, as panic and what-ifs flood my mind, I don't care. My hands curl into fists against his stomach as I glare down at the off-white of his tank top. I'm not even mad. The thought of hurting him just can't stop circling around in my head.

"Sorry," I end up whispering, still glaring.

A deep sigh leaves him that I feel through his stomach. I flatten my hands against his abdomen, glancing to his face. A small frown has taken the place of his earlier smirk.

"And sorry for my messed-up sense of humor," he responds, still looking up at the sky. In the dark of night, his eyes look black and endless.

I move my knees to either side of his hips, leaning down to press my face against his collarbone as wild laughter suddenly bubbles from within me at this entire ridiculous situation, at the impossible odds of sharing this crazy experience with anyone but him.

"I thought I stabbed you," I half-giggle half-sob out against his clammy skin. One of his hands rests on the back of my neck, the other on my lower back, on the skin exposed from my shirt riding up.

"I've been stabbed before," Robert whispers into my ear, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back, pushing my shirt further up. "If you think a pocket knife could do any real damage, you haven't been paying attention, David."

"Don't fuck around with me," I mutter, trying to calm my hysteria. His hand on my bare skin is helping, palms kneading my muscles and blunt fingernails tracing along my spine. I close my eyes and sigh, collapsing onto him until we're flush against each other. When he speaks, I feel it in my chest.

"I'm not fucking around with you. I've been stabbed before."

"Oh... I'm sorry then."

"Either way, you freak out too much. My body's used to taking a beating."

I frown against his neck, melting as both his hands run up from my waist to my shoulder blades. Now that he says it like that, I'm a little embarrassed at the way I overreacted.

"Well, I've never _actually_ been stabbed before," he mentions, "but I can imagine I'd live through it."

"Goddammit, Robert..."

I'm not sure who moves first, but eventually we separate and stand up with a silent agreement that, although the position is lovely, we'd both rather not lay on the dirty ground of the woods for any longer. I brush off my pants and the back of his tank top, which is now no longer such a pristine white.

"How do you do this?" I ask, picking up my phone. It's a good thing it didn't break when I dropped it. "How do you come all the way out here and hunt for something you don't even know exists?"

"People do that everyday of their lives," he answers, looking back when I stare at him in confusion. "Hunt for things they don't know exist."

I roll that statement around in my head as Robert finds my knife in the grass a few feet away and picks it up, closing and pocketing it. I guess, in some deep, philosophical way, I can't say that he's wrong about that...

We stay out here for a while longer, but the mood between us never really lightens, so we head back to his truck soon after. There's something tense and wired in the air now, like unspoken words or actions left undone. Questions never asked, answers never given, feelings never shared. I can't tell what it is exactly, but it eats at me for the entire drive back to town, this sense of anxiety keeping my mouth shut, like a seal of wax has been melted over my lips and stamped.

When he's parked in my driveway and is walking me to my door, that tension still hangs heavy between us. He follows me inside after I open the door, sitting on my couch with me while I click on the TV and rub my hands against my thighs.

"Want something to drink?" I ask, more to give myself something to do. He shakes his head, leaning back into my couch and crossing his arms.

"Sorry I ruined your night," he tells me, his eyes staring dully at the TV.

"What? No!  _I_  ruined _your_  night!"

"And how exactly did you do that, David?"

"I panicked. I freaked out over nothing. It was pretty stupid of me."

"No," Robert mutters, furrowing his brow, "I made you freak out. I scared you for no reason. I've never seen you that upset."

I settle back on the couch, not sure what to say.

"Some people are built this way," he continues, quiet and sullen. "To only care about themselves. It's something you can't change, you know."

Something in my chest starts to ache. I almost feel like I'm being broken up with. It's funny because we're not even dating.

"You are a caring person, though," I tell him, placing a hand on his knee. He doesn't look to me. His eyes don't move from the TV screen. "To Val, to Mary, to me. To little Betsy."

"But for how long?" he asks.

"For..." I trail off, my thoughts fragmented. I don't really know what he's talking about anymore, but it's definitely not about him scaring me in the woods. Before I can ask, he answers for me.

"I won't ever be good enough for you." He takes the remote from between us on the couch and changes the channel. "When are you gonna realize that, David?"

I study the side of his face, wondering how long these feelings have plagued him. Given how much he hides his emotions and how this is just coming to light now, I'd say he's been feeling this way for a while. Maybe even since we first met.

"So are we doing this or what?" he'd asked me in front of his house that night. Like we were both cattle put out to breed. Like we were both sex toys to be used and nothing more. Like he didn't deserve to be anything more.

"Robert," I whisper, madly in love with him.

He doesn't move when I lean over and wrap my arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I won't ever realize it," I answer his question, his stubble prickling my lips. "Because I already love you. It's too late for me."

The last sentence was said as a joke, but I have to whisper it out around the lump in my throat, so it doesn't sound like one at all. I'm half in his lap and half on the couch now, but I don't let go, pressing kisses along his jaw over and over again. I've learned by now that when Robert is like this, distant and closed-off, buried beneath self-hatred, the worse thing you can do is let go.

We sit like this for a while longer in silence, until I've kissed his cheek and jaw to death, so I lean back to kiss his lips instead. They're soft and pliant, just slightly responsive. I work my hands under his tank top and run my palms along his torso, not entirely out of sexual desire. Just to feel his skin against mine, warm and smooth. I trace the hairs on his tummy, reverse up his dark happy trail, spread my fingers against his pecs.

He kisses me back, slow and lazy, but it's good enough. It's perfect, because it's him. If only he would realize that.

The angle of my neck starts to hurt, so I swing my leg across him, straddling him on my couch. He sits up straighter, now more than just slightly responsive, his hands settling on my hips. When I bite on his bottom lip, his grip tightens, and I smile against his mouth, moving my hands from his chest to his back. Now that my arms aren't between us, he sits up more, pressing closer, and I sigh into his mouth.

He blazes a trail from my lips to my neck, his hands squeezing my hips tighter now, with purpose. I glance to the nearby clock on the wall. It's a little over 1:30 A.M.

"You know I missed that deadline for riding you, right?" I joke. A gasp leaves me when he suddenly bucks up, growling against my neck.

"Don't you dare mention that now," he mutters, moving one of his hands from my hip to my ass.

Oh, he likes dirty talk. Of course he does. We'd never really gotten this far, so I had no idea what he did or didn't like. Judging from the way he texts, I should have known, though. It's evil of me to think so at a time like this, but this may be one of my only chances for revenge against that whole sexting thing he pulled a week ago.

"Extend the deadline?" I whisper, and I get another sharp buck of his hips against me. He's not really kissing my neck anymore, just pressing his face there and breathing against it. I can't say I mind.

"David..."

"I'm already on you," I tease, sucking in a sharp breath when he grinds up against me again. "We're halfway there."

"Oh, fuck you..."

"Please?" I moan into his ear, gasping when he wraps his arms around me and dumps me over onto the couch. He hovers over me, hands to either side of my head, eyes locked on mine, panting down into my face. I try to commit to memory how utterly ravishing he looks.

Crap. The revenge plan backfired. Horribly.

He works a hand up my shirt, so agonizingly slow that I end up squirming in impatience, his fingers and palm gradually but firmly running up my side, almost tickling.

"Do what?" he asks, his voice deep and rough. He scoots closer, pushing my legs up. I can feel his erection grinding against the back of my thigh. "Say it for me."

When I reach out to wrap my arms around him, he grabs my hands, laces our fingers, and pins them beside my head. His eyes seem dark like they did in the forest, but differently so. Heavier, deeper.

"Say it, David," he urges, his grip on my hands tight and determined. I bite my lip and keep my mouth shut, slowly rocking my hips with him. "Tell me to do it."

He's trying to get me to talk dirty, but, on top of that, it feels like he's asking for permission. Like once he hears me ask for it, he knows he can do anything with me here on this couch. If I said two words right now, whispered them up into his face, he'd go for it and hold nothing back.

He's used to this, these hurried words. "Fuck me." I wonder how many times those two little words have been breathed into his ear over the years, by how many people who didn't want anything but his body against theirs. People he took and never saw again. Another notch on his belt, a rushed night of quick, short relief. I was almost one of those. I could have been one of those.

_So are we doing this or what?_

I struggle against his hands for a while, quiet, so he lets go, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in. His hips still against me, but he's still hard. We both are.

"I want one thing," I say against his cheek. He presses our chests together, reaching back to grab my thighs.

"Yeah, baby?"

Fuck. The way he whispered baby alone makes me want to rethink everything, but I force my next words out before I can reconsider.

"I want to go cryptid hunting with you again!"

He pauses for a second like he didn't hear me right, then starts to breathe into my ear, these short, huffed-out breathes that eventually gain purchase and become full, uncontrolled laughter. I press my lips together and let my arms fall from around him when he leans back, shaking his head. He's smiling brightly, and it's beautiful, the small wrinkles around his eyes defined.

"You are..." he starts, looking down and shaking his head again. "You're just..."

"The best?" I finish for him, and his smile widens, shaking his head once more.

He never finishes that sentence. We both sit up on the couch, both still hard and uncomfortable like teenagers, but I never would have told him to fuck me. After he just admitted to not thinking of himself as better than that? I would have been shooting him in the foot and carving his heart out with the same stuttering breath. I stare down at my carpet and smile helplessly, something in my chest still aching.

Robert runs a hand through his hair, slouched over, but that bright smile hasn't left his face. He opens his mouth and a laugh comes out, so he closes it and tries again, fixing his sparkling eyes on me. He doesn't look like a man that was just rejected. If anything, he looks like the opposite.

"Well," he declares, resigned, "guess what I'm doing tonight."

I fall back against my couch and laugh harder than I have in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much sexual tension can a man endure before his balls just explode? I guess we'll find out.


End file.
